


many happy returns

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 17:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: Not-so-happy birthday with fix-it.





	many happy returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themegalosaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/gifts).

> I am not sure whether I started this fic a year ago or two years ago, which says something about me (slow and procrastinatory) and about the fic (only glancing reference to current canon).

Max doesn’t really drink. It’s not absolute, like a principle or a health thing. He’ll have a beer or two when they go out, or sometimes an inventively awful neon cocktail, but Sam has never seen him drunk. Tipsy, maybe, fun-tipsy, but not drunk. He’s wasted now, though, glassy-eyed and morose. 

“You’re drunk,” says Sam, and it’s an accusation. Max had called and asked him to come. That implied that he wanted Sam there, maybe needed him. That implied that _Max_ would be there. And Dean had been fine about it, but Sam still left a hunt half-finished, he still went to Dean and told him he had to do boyfriend stuff, and that costs Sam, in ways Max can’t know about, but they’re there.

“No shit, Sherlock,” says Max. “Sam Winchester, ace detective.”

Sam pulls himself together. Max is in a bad place. He called Sam. Sam’s here. He shouldn’t be feeling abandoned or resentful or whatever stupid thing because Max called and then went off into Wasted Land before Sam could arrive. 

“Hi,” he says belatedly. “What’s, uh. Are you OK?”

“It’s my birthday,” says Max. “Hey. Happy birthday, me.”

Oh, shit. Now that Sam looks there’s a half-eaten cupcake, the sickly, yellow kind with a white scribble on it and fake cream inside, on the table next to the bottle. But Sam’s pretty sure Max never told him, so it’s not like Sam forgot or something. And Max is not the type to never mention his birthday and then get passive-aggressive when Sam doesn’t psychically know. This is something else.

“Uh, happy birthday,” says Sam. It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, but it’s his next line. Saying the wrong thing is a straightforward assignment. It’s well within Sam’s skillset.

Max carries on staring at the wall like Sam hadn’t spoken.

“Which, by logical extension,” he continues tonelessly, “means that it’s also Alicia’s birthday.”

That … would certainly follow. That should, in fact, have been blindingly obvious. Twins. It’s not like Sam forgets about Alicia. She’s there, a jagged edge. Ambiguous Maybe-Alicia, making a go of free will in Montreal. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. Choosing the safe option.

“Or maybe it isn’t her birthday,” says Max. “If we’re talking the doll. Her birthday would be the day Alicia died. You think there’s a Hallmark card for that?”

There’s a fuckton of things Hallmark doesn’t make cards for. 

“Maybe you should go to bed,” Sam says. There’s no point in trying to have a conversation that Sam doesn’t want to have and that Max won’t remember. 

Max looks around for a bed. It’s right there, king-sized. On another occasion Max and a king-sized bed might be a great combination. Now it’s just there. Sam hooks an arm under Max’s shoulder and pulls him out of the chair. Max’s head lolls against his shoulder.

“You’re sending me to bed,” Max says. His voice is slurred and stupid. His breath smells of liquor. Sam turns his face away. “I got sent to bed early on my birthday when I was ten, too. There was an incident with an electronic device and me being rude to my mom. Guess the last laugh’s on me. Mom can’t get me for being rude this time. She’s dead.” 

Sam deposits him on the bed. Max closes his eyes.

“That time Alicia was unbearably smug,” he says. He squints his eyes open at Sam. “Are you smug?” 

“It’s not my birthday,” says Sam. “I'm not Alicia. I don’t get to be smug. Go to sleep.”

Max is already snoring.

_Max is pretty fucked up_, Sam texts to Maybe-Alicia’s phone. Then he deletes it without sending. 

_Hey, happy birthday_, he texts instead.

His phone pings two hours later: _It’s not my birthday_, and then: _Don’t you dare tell him where I am._

“Hey, Sam.”

They’re eating hangover pancakes at Friendly Ice Cream. Max is back to himself, which means he’s got that weighing look, like he might be comparing Sam to normal boyfriend standards. Sam looks up warily.

“Yeah?”

“Last night. Did that bother you?”

Of course it bothered Sam, seeing Max struggling. And of course it didn’t _bother_-bother him, not like it was a nuisance Sam had to put up with or something. Max has a right to his issues. God knows Sam comes with a boatload of his own.

“Of course not,” Sam says. “You can call me. Any time. It’s not a problem.”

“But I was wasted. And I get the sense that bothered you. That, specifically. Granted I was not at my best, but I remember you being bothered. You had a look. I remember you having a look.”

There are disadvantages to dating a nice guy who cares about him. Last night it hadn’t seemed like Max was noticing looks. Now Sam has to field this, on top of everything else. 

“Dude,” he says. “It was your birthday. You have stuff going on. No one is going to judge you. I’m, uh. I’m particularly not the guy who gets to judge you.” Sam can remember turning a lot of whisky glasses, at sundry times and in diverse places, in careful half-turns. And he knows Alicia’s address. That … sidesteps any right to judge he might have with the doll thing.

Max is eyeing him now with an odd, smoldering belligerence. Hung-over emotions, the sour morning-after volatility, Sam remembers those, too. Sometimes him, more times Dean; way back, foundationally, Dad. Or just around, an ambient hunting-life radiation.

“Maybe I was trying to be you. Maybe that was a factor. Don’t you Winchesters mark every lousy milestone with whisky? Isn’t that part of the Winchester mystique?”

It’s a weirdly mild hostility, though, almost wry. Max isn’t that great at spiraling down. It’s something Sam would miss if Max ever lost it, something he guiltily relies on, that buoyant, incorrigible sanity. That’s definitely not a Winchester thing. Alicia maybe -- (Maybe-Alicia?) -- deserves something else, but Sam isn't going to stop grabbing for this when he can.

“It’s a stupid family tradition,” he says. Like Amelia’s horrible hot dog dish. “A lot of families have those. It’s not like it’s special. Imitation in this case is not the best flattery.” 

_You’re not breaking through to the major leagues. Nice try, with the doll, though._ Sam doesn’t say that. He has his own edges of hostility, and Max is surely aware of them.

Max pushes his sticky plate away with a decisive shove, like he’s sick of the whole mood and ready to change it. That’s another thing he has, the will to change the subject.

“I never actually thought Winchesters had invented alcoholism. You’re not that famous or infamous.”

“Thanks,” says Sam, “I think.” 

Max leans forward and touches his wrist.

“Anyway, if it bothered you, it’s not really my business or anything. Just because I made a spectacle of myself doesn’t mean you have to spill secrets. But if you do want to talk, I’m too hungover to do much this morning but listen. This Friendly Ice Cream is ours. We are the breakfast rush. That may bode ill for the franchise, but you can take advantage.”

Sam looks at the soggy teabag beside Max’s white, ceramic mug. Max isn’t enough of a Winchester to drink black coffee for hangovers. Them being the breakfast rush may be because it’s ten on a weekday. Or it may be the universe invalidating Sam’s excuses for not being a little bit honest. It can be a belated, lousy birthday present.

Max is waiting, patient.

“Uh. I guess it does bother me. Not that I’ve never been the one wasted, but. My Dad, you know, he didn’t take it well, Mom dying, me being darkside-cursed or whatever. And, Dean, I mean, you can’t blame him. Dad and me, we both put stuff on him. And, uh. After Michael, and then Chuck. And a whole lot else. But I guess it does bother me.”

There, he said it out loud. Max just looks at him thoughtfully, like he’s seeing it on tape, Sam taking bottles away from Dean, like some do-gooder fraternal Sisyphus, like it will do any good. The universe just throws more shit at Dean. If anybody has a right, Dean has. Sam can’t go around chirpily asking Dean to be unslurred, not angry. He can’t pressure Dean to dispense Lucky Charms or pretend he’s Sam’s guardian at teacher conferences when Dad’s AWOL or whatever. Dean’s got too much stuff in his life. Too much of it is from Sam. Sam may throw hope at Dean sometimes like it's an offensive weapon, but he shouldn't.

“I’m sorry about that,” says Max. 

“Don’t be,” says Sam. “It’s my stuff. Not your responsibility. I just, you asked, so I told you. But that doesn’t put it on you. It’s not your fault I’ve got issues.”

“Don’t we all,” says Max. “Look, moving on. I’ve decided the guilt and self-pity bender cramps my style. I should probably have tried to, to reach Alicia. The doll. My, whatever she is in relation to me. Sister-something. The doll whose address and phone number I don’t have. Never mind. I’ll figure it out. Moving on. When is _your_ birthday? I never asked, did I? Whenever it is, we’ll do something festive. I’ll put it in my calendar.” 

“Uh,” says Sam. “May 2nd.” Four months and change ago. Mostly by coincidence, a day he’d spent with Max. They’d been hunting a Siren. Max remembers that kind of thing, dates and seasons. Sam doesn’t, most of the time, but witches seem to run more on calendars. They have days, ceremonies, lots of traditions. Max carries them cross-indexed in his head. 

Sam watches Max put it together.

“You didn’t say anything,” he says. Unlike Sam, he doesn’t sound accusing, just level and curious. Well-adjusted. It’s possible Sam resents that, too.

“Well, you didn’t exactly tell me about yours. Not till you were wasted.” That should shut Max up.

Max raises his hands in surrender.

“OK, OK, fair. I’m not accusing you of anything. So what’s not good about May 2nd? Or do you just not like cake and party hats? Which would be understandable. They’re not a good accessory for every outfit. I can see there might be a clashing issue with some or all plaids.”

For a moment Sam imagines reciting a strictly edited list of things that have happened on or around his birthday. A knife in his back, Dean ripped and bleeding and dead, saying Yes, Lucifer, the long fall to the Cage. May is, in general, a bad month. Honestly, he’s afraid if he ever talked about it he might start laughing. He was lucky, that day with Amelia. His heart had still been slamming against his ribs from Riot not there and then Amelia not there. He’d been a little afraid he might black out, but not at all worried that he might start talking. Starting down that road now would not be a good idea.

“You hit the nail on the head,” he says. “My aesthetic sense revolts at pointy hats and plaid.” Sam can count on Max taking the idea of Sam having an aesthetic sense as the absurdist evasion it is. Max reminds him of Jess, when it comes to his take on Sam and aesthetics.

Max meets Sam’s eyes for a long, acknowledging moment. Then he looks away and digs in his bag for his iPad. Sam takes the few, deep breaths that Max just gave him space for. By the time Max has the iPad out of its case he’s got a whole new atmosphere going, like a particularly perky corporate meeting.

“Neither of us wants to celebrate our birthdays,” he begins. “We have good reasons for this, which need not be enumerated. Therefore we will not celebrate our birthdays. But the two of us are awesome people. Our awesomeness should be acknowledged. We are intelligent, badass, and also handsome. We should celebrate that. After a bit, not right now. How about in a month or so? October? Any negative baggage with mid-October?”

Max is flexing his hands over the iPad while he talks, like a pianist beginning a concert. The grey grief and hangover tinge is gone; he looks energized. Handsome, badass, and intelligent, in fact. And he’s genuinely asking for Sam’s input. Sam thinks for a moment.

This is what Sam had wanted. Someone with less excess baggage. Someone who doesn’t drink, who doesn’t have Winchester reasons to drink. A nice, normal boyfriend, though the witch stuff is also useful. If he’s mad at Max, and that probably doesn’t have much to do with one well-earned bender, if he’s mad, it’s not about Alicia. Or it is, but it’s not on Alicia’s behalf, not entirely. He’s angry at Max for grieving, for fucking up, for crashing into Sam’s issues, for having problems, all that Winchester stuff. Is it too much to ask, that for once he get to be the only Winchester in a relationship?

But then, can’t _he_ choose to be different, to break his patterns? Does anyone have to be the statutory Winchester?

“I don’t like Halloween,” he says. “I’m nixing Halloween stuff.”

Max nods. 

“Noted,” he says. “But thereby hangs a vital question. Give me your candid thoughts on pumpkin spice. We’re talking October; this is an unavoidable issue. Think carefully.”

The advantage to the occasionally awkward age difference is that Max’s question is probably not a set-up for mockery. This is a unique opportunity. Sam musters his courage.

“The lattes are OK. Uh, I kind of like those pumpkin croissants Au Bon Pain has.” 

Max’s whole face lights up with aggressive delight. 

“Pumpkin croissants,” he says. “You, Sam Winchester, man of lore and muscle, eating pumpkin croissants. This is a whole new side of you.” His eyes rake up and down Sam, interested and alight, the way he’d been the first time they’d been naked together. 

Sam feels the scalding blush on his face and down his chest, under his shirts. It’s not that he’s embarrassed, really. So he likes pumpkin croissants, so shoot him. It’s just, taking off layers in front of someone. It’s not always the important stuff that feels intimate. Max’s eyes flick over him once more. He goes back to his screen with a secretive, satisfied smile that smolders somewhere in Sam’s guts.

“Every man hides a secret shame,” he says. “Spock’s retconned half-brother said it, it’s got to be true. Did you know he has a retconned adoptive sister, now? Once they start they never know when to stop. So, our goal is non-birthday festivities, in Au Bon Pain territory, in October. Our day of awesome will start with pumpkin croissants. What else?”

Shouldn’t this work both ways? Not that Sam is expecting to catch Max out on some pumpkin croissant thing. Max is ahead of him in these waters, at home, elusive. Which is fine. Sam can wade in deeper, chasing him.

“I think it’s your turn,” he says. 

Max stares thoughtfully out the window at the panoramic view of parking lot. 

“I want to look at an octopus,” he says. “That is my non-birthday wish. We’ll go to an aquarium. I am also up for looking at fish and penguins. Then we’ll eat somewhere. Not seafood. I don’t want to eat anything I’ve just bonded with.”

“How about a moray eel?” says Sam. “Not really bondy.”

“We can look at a moray eel,” says Max. “I’m not exercising veto privilege on looking at moray eels. They are the green supervillains of the abyss. They’re a cool and valid part of the aquarium experience. But if you’re suggesting eating one, you’ve got a twisted mind. Though in a way I could be persuaded to admire. Eating moray eels might not even be legal. It's definitely transgressive.”

Sam Googles _Are moray eels edible?_ That’s a more relevant issue than if eating them is legal. Him and Max do illegal shit, it’s part of the job. But Sam doesn’t really want to be poisoned on his fake birthday.

“Moray eels were a royal dish for Hawaiian monarchs,” he tells Max.

“Let’s not get carried away,” says Max. “We’re having a non-birthday party, not claiming a throne. We will not eat moray eel. I’m exercising my veto and also asserting the limits of reality. Pumpkin croissant, aquarium, normal, morayless dinner. Which aquarium? Coney Island?”

Sam Googles some more. It’s his phone against Max’s iPad, but it feels pretty evenly matched.

“Hey,” he says. “The one in Boston has whale-watching. The aquarium. In October.” He could be out in a boat with Max, somewhere windy. Somewhere all this issue shit might get dwarfed by whales, might blow away on the breeze.

Max looks out at the parking lot again. It’s grey with a few spits of rain and tossing trees. For a moment Sam has an absolute, irrational conviction that Max is seeing what he is, the wind and the whales.

“That sounds good,” Max says. “Let’s see. Mid-October. How about October 10th? I don’t have anything then.”

Sam doesn’t exactly have a calendar. But he can make an engagement. 

“I can do October 10th,” he says. Whatever hunt or apocalypse comes up, it can wait a day. “I’m, uh. Looking forward to it.”

Which sounds stupidly formal, but he is. He really is.


End file.
